


Non Sterek Tumblr Ficlets

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Docking, Emotional and sexual manipulation of one partner by the other, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Foreskin Play, Gen, M/M, Nipple Play, Nogitsune Stiles, Non consensual non sexual touching, Non sexual biting, Parent/Child Incest, Psychological manipulation of a teenaged girl, Serial Killer Peter Hale, Sex Toys, Tentacle Sex, Tree Sex, sex with an oddly perfect hole in a tree (stump)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 11,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My non-Sterek Tumblr ficlets, each with different pairings and warnings.</p><p>See notes before each section.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Peter/Lydia 
> 
> (warnings for non consensual non sexual touching and psychological manipulation)

Peter/Lydia ficlet (warnings for non consensual touching)  
For @offthepreserve, for reasons. : D  
\---------  
This pack, these _children_ look at him and see only a creepy old man.

And maybe he is. Maybe.

But Peter remembers sleeping for six years, and being dead for months, and an Alpha sometime in between. He's a werewolf, born to it, and strong and vital. Virile.

So when he looks at Lydia and feels the warmth of want flowing through him, it doesn't distress him. She's beautiful and vibrant and powerful with a magic that tastes alien on his tongue. And he remembers...

He remembers when he was nothing but a whisper in her head. When his body was nothing but another rotting corpse buried among the ashes of the rest of the Hale pack, among the bits of his wife and children that had burned to cinders and fallen between twisted and heat-warped floor boards to darken the ground below.

He remembers watching through her eyes as she undressed before her mirror. He remembers urging her, with merely the power of suggestion, to turn the lamps low, to lay back on her bed, to drag her hands in a slow arc over her belly. To tease between the hot folds of flesh between her thighs and squeeze the mounds her breasts and drag her nails in skin-welting lines down her throat.

He remembers how she felt when she licked her lips and bucked her hips. He remembers the bubble of breath in the back of her throat that escaped as a ragged sob when her body twisted beneath her hands, searching for release.

Her hands guided by his consciousness.

He remembers all these things as he sits beside her, perching on the arm of the sofa in his nephew's loft, his body returned to him by her. When he runs the back of his fingers over her bare arm, he acknowledges, if only to himself, that he can only do so because of her unwilling interference.

He watches, fascinated, as her skin pebbles with goosebumps and she recoils, her upper lip—that she had once painted glossy with her own wetness—curving in disgust. As she stands and moves away, tempting him to give chase.

He remembers being young and beautiful and he...

He remembers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter/Lydia
> 
> Non sexual biting, canon scene

It all starts the night he bites her. It’s not even meant to be HER he bites, but for just a moment, she smells like the mouthy boy who had the audacity to turn down Peter’s gift. She wanders onto the darkened field like a sacrifice to ancient gods—

(of which he’s one, oh yes)

—and he lunges, his jaws snapping closed over the tender meat of her side. His teeth cut through skin and muscle like butter, and her blood pours over his tongue. It’s sweet in ways he’ll come to realize she isn’t.

She screams and her hair floats out behind her like a banner as she crumples to the ground. Its red is a pale imitation of the blood dripping down his throat and matting the fur of his muzzle.

Her eyes are wide, pupils pinpricks of fear and he stands above her on legs bent in inhuman ways. He is powerful.

He is power.

Her eyes flutter closed as her blood spills, wasted, onto the wet grass. It soaks a dark patch on her dress and leaves a taste in his mouth.

It’s like regret.

It’s like addiction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter/Stiles
> 
> Daddy kink, dirty talk, nipple play
> 
> For badwolfbadwolf

It starts like this:

"Don’t forget your…" Peter wrinkles his nose and extends the hoodie toward Stiles on the tip of a claw, as if he’s too good to come into contact with such a tragedy of fashion.

He is.

Stiles snatches it, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, _Dad._ ”

And that would be it, the end of an otherwise uneventful meeting. But their eyes lock, and awareness flickers, and Stiles’ cheeks go red even as he drops his gaze hurriedly. He pulls the hoodie close like a shield, but not before Peter notices how his nipples pout through the thin fabric of his tshirt.

It is…lovely.

——

Now here they are, and it is an altogether different sort of lovely. Stiles is writhing slowly on the bed beneath Peter, spread out and delicious as pleas fall from his bitten red lips.

He’s shaved his head again, gone back to the buzz cut Peter found so sinfully delightful. It makes him look so young and vulnerable. So…fragile.

"Tell me, darling boy," Peter murmurs, not bothering to lower his voice. It sends a special thrill through him, debauching Stiles in his childhood bed, while his father snores contentedly on the other side of a very thin wall. "Tell Daddy what you want." 

His claw is dragging lightly over Stiles’ nipple, not enough pressure behind the touch to draw blood, just enough to tease and torment and… And possibly threaten. Because they both know he could slice it off between one heartbeat and the next.

The danger has always been part of the appeal.

Stiles licks his lips, face flushed becomingly, panting for breath already. His cock, so thin and pink and delicate next to Peter’s thick, dark shaft, twitches in time with his heartbeat.

"Please…" he whimpers.

"Not until you ask for it like a big boy. Tell me, baby. Do you want me to touch your tight ass? Should I put my cock against your pretty little hole? Rub the tip all over until it’s wet and grasping at me, trying to suck me in?"

He leans down and pulls Stiles’ lip into his mouth, scrapes his teeth over it. Just a hint of fang to make him shudder with want. When he pulls back, Stiles has tears in his eyes, frustration having already driven him to the edge of losing control.

Peter smiles and smoothes the pad of his thumb over Stiles’ nipple then presses down, hard, just to watch his boy squirm.

"Or should I use my fingers? You love your Daddy’s hands, don’t you? I’d start with three, because it’s not worth it if you don’t feel it. And you’re so loose and open from earlier still, when you rode Daddy’s cock like a big boy, that two just wouldn’t be enough. You know what’d come next, don’t you?"

Stiles gurgles and it sounds suspiciously like, “Me.” Enough so that Peter scowls and pinches cruelly at the nipple he’s been tormenting until Stiles bows off the bed, eyes rolling wildly and breath caught in his throat.

"I’d fuck you with four fingers. Just until you’re loose enough for that last one. My thumb. And then I’d push. Push my whole hand inside while you’re losing your mind, body caught between running and staying. Between overwhelming pleasure and unending pain. And I’d keep pushing until you’re riding my wrist, tightening around me hard enough to break bone."

"If I pulled my hand out and pushed my cock in then, you’d never feel it. Assuming you’d still be conscious to notice. I’ve heard many stories of boys passing out when their Daddies use their fists on them."

"Is that what you want, baby?"

"Or do you want Daddy to kiss it? Do you want me to lick you all over, put my tongue on your ass? In your ass? Do you want me to chase after the come I spilled inside you earlier? See if I can find it? I bet I’d have to reach way up in there. I might have to shift to beta form first—"

Stiles keens, a wild, high pitched sound.

"—because my tongue is longer then. It’s the only way I’d be able to reach all the way inside—"

Warmth splashes over Peter’s thigh and he frowns, looking at Stiles with heavy disapproval.

But Stiles’ whole body softens under the stern gaze and he turns his head, seeking out the hand Peter is bracing his weight on.

"S’ry, Daddy," he slurs, his tongue darting out to lick over Peter’s wrist. "I’ve been bad. Maybe you should use your fist to punish me."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles/Sheriff Stilinski
> 
> *see list of warnings in end notes*

Stiles looks at himself in the mirror, bites his lips until they're swollen and red, and nods. He touches his finger to the lip of the perfume bottle and smoothes it behind his ears. He can't use too much, or it'll break the spell.

The brown Sheriff's Department tshirt is too large by far, falling halfway down his thin legs and hanging off one shoulder. It gives him an air of vulnerability that's only emphasized by his wide brown eyes.

With a shaky breath and a steely spine, he quietly leaves his room and sneaks down the stairs. The clink of glass sends a bolt of relief through him and he firms his resolve.

~*~

John sits at the table, hand shaking as he pours himself another splash of whiskey.

 _You broke your promise,_ he thinks, and lifts the glass to his lips. _You said forever and you lied._

The room spins dizzily when he goes to set the glass down. He misses, barely catching the edge with the bottom of the tumbler, and the empty glass bounces noisily on the floor. He winces, knowing there's a reason he should be quiet, but unable to...

Oh. Stiles.

His beautiful boy. 

His beautiful boy who looks so much like Claudia that it's physically painful. His boy who is asleep upstairs, who needs a father who doesn't drink himself into a stupor every night. A father who can hold him and let him cry. A father who's _there_ , who's present in his life in ways John can't be. 

His boy who looks at him with his dead wife's eyes, with her sweet mouth and cute little nose. Whose long fingers are a match to hers. Who sings the songs she did at night in an attempt to hold on to the fading image of a mother he loved so much.

His boy who is standing in front of him now.

John chokes on a sob, damning Claudia once again for leaving him. For leaving _them_.

"Doesn't she know I don't know how to do this without her?" he asks, his voice breaking.

Stiles bends and picks up the glass he dropped, setting it on the table beside the empty whiskey bottle. Then, without a word, he turns and offers a hand to John, who takes it. Stiles smiles, and his mouth is so red, his eyes are so bright.

~*~

Whiskey is heavy on his dad's breath as Stiles leads him up the stairs, helps him undress, and eases him into the bed. When John instantly rolls over, Stiles climbs in behind him, fits his body along his dad's back, and waits.

John mumbles in his sleep, body going lax, and turns toward Stiles, who snuggles close, tucks his head under his dad's chin, and lets the perfume waft through the air.

"I'm here," he whispers, smoothing a hand down his dad's chest until his palm is over the steadily beating heart. "I won't leave you like she did," he promises.

~*~

Every night, she comes to him in his dreams, her faint scent filling his head and her body curves into his. In his dreams, he can hold her again.

In his dreams, he runs his hands down her back, under her sleep shirt. Feels her legs wind around his body as he lowers his head and presses kisses to her beautiful face.

She crawls over his body, her long, nimble fingers teasing at his nipples and sliding through the slit of his boxers to stroke lovingly over his cock until he's fully hard, hitching his hips, and crying out for her.

She covers his mouth then with her own, her lips sliding against his and her tongue licking sweetly into his mouth, almost innocently. She strokes him until he comes as his hands squeeze the pert cheeks of her ass.

She falls against him, and he can feel her body trembling against his. He moves his hands, fumbling in a drunken, sleepy haze to bring her pleasure too, but she just smiles that beautiful smile and whispers, "It's okay. This is for you."

"I love you," he slurs around a tongue thick with drink and slow with sleep.

"I love you."

~*~

Stiles waits until his dad is fully asleep again before slipping from the bed. He raises a hand to his mouth and licks the come from his palm, then slips his still-coated fingers over his hard cock. He strokes himself, slick with his dad's come, and when his orgasm hits, he can't stifle his whimpers.

John stirs on the bed, and Stiles gasps out, "I love you."

"Love you..." John mumbles into his pillow, his wedding ring glinting in the moonlight that spills through the window.

~*~

When John wakes up, sheets spotted with come, he feels the heat of angry tears burn at the back of his eyes. He dreamed of her again.

The need for whiskey to dull his pain forces him from the bed and he knocks gently on Stiles' open door. 

"Hey, kiddo. It's time for school," he says, and watches as Stiles rolls toward him, a soft smile curving lips that are so like Claudia's.

~*~

Stiles hears the clink of the whiskey bottle against glass and shifts in his computer chair. He looks at the clock, and mentally sets a count down timer.

One hour. In just one hour, he'll get up, put on her perfume, and go downstairs.

For now, there's homework to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: SO MANY OMG. Uh, so I've been calling this Lolita!Stiles in my head, but I don't think that's entirely accurate? Father/Son incest, drunken blackout sex stuff, non-con, underage. All sexual acts are performed by the minor child without the consent of the parent. Stiles very deliberately tries to make the Sheriff think he's dream!Claudia. There are so many levels of wrong here.


	5. Apologies, Scott/Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Stiles, post 3x22

They’re all standing back, still staring in shock at the Stiles covered in disgusting-smelling bandages. He smells like death and doesn’t look far from it. 

But suddenly he’s struggling, gasping and crying as he tries to get untangled from the ropes of cloth. His heartbeat is racing—Scott can _hear_ it—and his glassy, tear-filled eyes raise to lock on Scott’s.

"Scott," his voice is a bare, broken whisper that strains even Scott’s supernaturally enhanced hearing.

Scott stumbles to his knees and helps Stiles tear himself loose because no matter what else is going on, Scott will always help this boy who’s so much more than a brother to him.

Always.

When his arms are free, Stiles pitches forward, hands scrabbling at Scott’s shirt, shoving it up so he can stare, his expression tortured, at the smooth expanse of skin there. Stiles’ fingertips brush lightly over the place where the Oni’s blade had been embedded, and the tears fall faster now.

"I’m sorry," Stiles whispers, over and over, his voice breaking again and again until Scott reaches for him, lifts him bodily from the bandages that fall in a mess on the floor.

"It’s okay," Scott murmurs in Stiles’ ear, turning them so his back shields Stiles from everyone’s view. "It’s okay; it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you, Stiles." Stiles’ face is wet against his neck, but Scott just holds on tighter. 

There’s a lot Scott doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how they’re going to save Lydia. How they’re going to defeat the nogitsune. How they’re going to reverse the effects of turning on the nemeton. But there is one thing he does know. One thing he’s _always_ known. 

This is Stiles. This is _his_ Stiles, and no one’s ever taking him from Scott again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I do the tumblr thing.](eeyore9990.tumblr.com)


	6. Peter/Lydia for Offthepreserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 3x24, the finale.

"Lydia." 

His voice is pleasant enough, but there’s an undercurrent of violence that has Lydia lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes. Her lips quirk in a cold facsimile of a smile as she returns his greeting with a curt, “Peter.”

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He slides one hand into his pocket, the very picture of debonaire nonchalance. Lydia doesn’t try to hide the complete lack of impression he makes.

"The other day you seemed… _interested_ … in your daughter.”

"Oh?" His eyes flicker briefly blue and she smiles, a wide, smug expression.

"Yes, I can understand how it could have slipped your mind. So much happening in such a short span of time. The nogitsune taking me, A-allison and—" She swallows hard and fights back the rush of emotion, blinking down at her hands, where they’re twisting into her skirt.

"Ah yes. The huntress. Dead, I heard."

"That’s not why I—"

"Good _riddance_ ,” he hisses, and her gaze snaps back to his face, which is twisted in a kind of exultant satisfaction. “May her father follow her to the grave.”

Her hand is flying before she can think, and it makes contact with a harsh smack. His fingers are around her wrist before it finishes its downward arc, and he uses the leverage and momentum to spin her around, pinning her against him. 

"Be careful, little girl," he drawls in her ear, ruffling her hair. "You may have declawed your little lover, but not me."

And something inside her crumples, because as much as she’d pushed him away, you can’t share the kind of intimacies she’d shared with Aiden and be unaffected by his death. The yawning chasm opens inside her and all she wants to do is fill it with her screams.

"Why are you here?" Peter asks again, and she jerks against him, startled out of her grief.

"What are you?" she whispers. The time for games has passed.

"I have the feeling ‘your worst nightmare’ is not the answer you’re looking for," he murmurs thoughtfully, his nose sliding lightly up the side of her neck. "You smell sad. And confused." His hips press against her invitingly.

Rolling her eyes—and absurdly thankful that his less than subtle attempts have helped her find her equilibrium—Lydia steps neatly away from him and flips her hair back over her shoulders before spinning to confront him again. “Your daughter is a coyote. Your progeny is, from what we can gather, a were-bluejay.”

Peter’s blank stare gives her a few more moments to gather her thoughts. “Is this one of Stiles’ ill-thought-out jokes? A were-bluejay?”

Lydia lifts one shoulder. “Kate is blue. Either she’s some form of bluebird or a Na’avi.” At Peter’s questioning look, she spreads her hands and says, “Fictional alien character.”

"Ah. And when you say Kate, you mean…"

"Kate Argent—"

He’s on her faster than thought, his hand wrapped around her throat, sliding her up the wall behind her until her feet can only kick fruitlessly at the wall while her eyes widen and her lips part in search of oxygen.

"That’s _impossible,_ " he roars, his face just below the level of hers. "I tore out her _throat_.” He seems to recognize that he’s hurting her then and lets go, stepping back as she falls to her knees, gasping for breath.

"That might," she coughs, "explain the blue skin."

He grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to her feet, then continues tugging on her until they’re outside. “What…? Where are you—?”

"I have to find my nephew. If she’s truly back, he’ll be the first one she hunts."

Lydia pulls backward on his grip until he stops with an impatient sound. “She’s already found him,” she says, then, when his eyes darken and shutter over a flash of emotion, she rushes to add, “He’s fine. Scott…felt it. We found him in time. He’s healing at Stiles’.”

Peter’s lips curl, and they share a perfect moment of understanding, though Peter ruins it by taking it that final step too far. “Healing? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Rolling her eyes, Lydia crosses her arms and pins him with a stare. “My question stands, Peter. What _are_ you?”

His lips curve just a touch and he looks over her shoulder, his studied urbanity hiding any truth as he shrugs and says, “I’m a werewolf.”

"What else are you?"

"That, my dear, is a very long story."


	7. Muscle Definition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the finale, Coach Finstock mentions Malia's muscle definition, but she's wearing clothes that hide such things. So, this.
> 
> Implied Greenstock.

She walks into the locker room, all predatory grace, with a smile that could slice him up if he’s not careful.

"Uh, hello? Are you from the nut house too, or are you another new girl?" Finstock seriously cannot keep the girls in this school straight.

"I’m new," she says, lips forming the words with more curve than necessary. When she licks her lips, his eyes drop to them uncontrollably. "My name’s Malia."

He takes her outstretched hand, mutters, “Coach Finstock,” and tries to hide a wince when she crushes his hand in her grip.

They’re having a perfectly normal conversation about expectations at the school—“When you die a violent death, try not to do it in the hallways or the pool. We’re still trying to find a janitor and the cleanup bill for a pool that size is ridiculous. Classes? Hah, no, totally not necessary for you to attend,”—when she strips off her clothes and stands in front if him, totally nude.

He gawks at her for a minute before nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think we can find a place for you.”

"Aren’t you gonna…" She looks nervous for the first time then, winding her arms around each other and crossing her legs.

"What? Oh, pfft, no. Greenberg would have my balls." 

Her smile then is hesitant, and sits just right on her young face.

"Get dressed and we’ll talk about sports."


	8. Apologies (2), Stiles/Isaac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a gifset of the scene where Stiles was being a snarky bastard to Isaac at the beginning of 3b...this happened.

Stiles is sitting in the living room when Isaac gets home. He’s got a box in his hands and is sitting very still, more quiet than Isaac can ever remember him being. It’s a bit creepy, honestly, but it’s been long enough that Isaac isn’t really afraid of the nogitsune reappearing.

He coughs quietly to alert Stiles to his presence, then says, “I think Scott’s working til eight. You’re welcome to hang out, but it might be faster to go to the clinic?”

Stiles recovers quickly from his initial startle, then leaps from the couch, almost tripping over his own feet before he rights himself and stands with a self-conscious neck rub and chuckle. “Uh, yeah. No. I’m not… here for Scott? I actually. Heeey, Isaac. How ya’ doin’, buddy?” His cheeks go splotchy with embarrassed color before his shoulders rise and fall in an exaggerated sigh and he says, “Okay, no. I’m definitely here to see you. This is,” he thrusts the box toward Isaac, “for you.”

Isaac grabs the box before the sharp corner can impale his spleen and holds onto it as Stiles lets go and dances back a few steps. “What…?” It feels empty, but the box isn’t really _that_ big, so maybe it’s a gift card or something? Although, Isaac’s birthday was three months ago, so he has no idea why Stiles would be giving him a gift.

"I just, uh, I wanted to apologize. I know it’s not the same as what I did to Scott or… you know. But, look, dude. I never hated you. Not like it probably seemed? And I… just open the box?" Isaac can hear Stiles’ throat working as he swallows roughly, his eyes fastened on the box in Isaac’s hands.

With a shrug and a nod, Isaac pops out a claw and cuts through the tape holding the box closed. “I love having claws,” he whispers, smiling shyly up at Stiles when he barks out a laugh.

"Yeah, I bet. They come in handy, huh?"

"Yeah." Isaac lifts the box lid and looks inside, where tissue paper is laying over something. Pushing the paper aside, he lets out a gasp, and looks up at Stiles, speechless. 

"What I said, when… when I wasn’t me? About your scarves? It wasn’t true." Stiles’ eyes are wide, beseeching, begging Isaac to believe him. "I asked Lydia to help me pick out this one for you. Well, I mean. I actually picked it out, but she approved it. So. You know, you can, like, stamp, _approved by Lydia Martin_ on it or something.” Stiles’ hands are fluttering around in the air between them, showing his nerves at Isaac’s approval.

"It’s awesome, Stiles. Thank you," Isaac says, reaching out and grabbing one of Stiles’ hands before he can knock over the vase on the table two feet away. Using that hold, he tugs gently until Stiles is close enough to wrap an arm around. "But you don’t owe me anything. It wasn’t you."

"I know, but… But I really like your scarves, dude." Stiles’ voice is muffled against Isaac’s shoulder before he pulls back and whispers, "And I hate that you’ve stopped wearing them."

Isaac gently plucks the scarf from the box and wraps it around his neck. It’s soft and almost silky and feels oddly cool against his skin. “That’s not your fault though. I mean. It’s summer,” he says, with a grin.

Stiles laughs and bumps shoulders with him, and another piece of _right_ ness clicks into place.


	9. Chris/Isaac, daddy!kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > a-little-bit-of-ultra-violence asked:
>> 
>> *sneaks in and quietly hopes for a fic with Isaac and daddy kink*

When Chris gets home, Isaac is waiting for him. That’s how it goes these days; neither of them can function on their own any more, not after… Chris shoves the past away and focuses on the present. On the future. On the boy who’d been so lost and confused until they’d found each other. Until they’d found their happiness in this non-traditional relationship.

Their relationship is why Isaac waits for Chris on a large throw pillow on the floor, his knees tucked up under him and his school books laid out on the table. He’s enrolled in online courses under an alias that Chris had had to call in multiple favors to procure, but he’s happy now. Settled. 

And seeing Isaac’s happiness settles Chris.

Stripping off his jacket, Chris hangs it over the back of a chair and then falls easily onto the couch, right beside where Isaac is sitting with his back pressed to the arm rest. “Did you get all your homework done?” he asks, his voice low and free of inflection as he reaches out and cards his fingers through Isaac’s hair.

Isaac sighs and presses his head into the touch before twisting around to lay his head in Chris’ lap. “Yes, Daddy.”

"Did you have any difficulties?" Chris works at a tangled strand, gently separating it until his fingers can run through the golden curls without the slightest tug.

"There was a problem in Calculus that was kinda hard, but I worked it out."

"Do I need to look over it?"

"Later?" Isaac asks, looking up at Chris with wide, needy eyes, his lips gently parted, a deep pink color that draws Chris’ attention to them.

"All right. Did you have any plans for the evening?" he asks, because it’s important that Isaac have plenty of time to socialize with his peers, especially since he doesn’t have time with them at school.

"Just…this," Isaac says, sliding one hand up Chris’ shin and resting it on his knee. Not pushing for more, just answering his daddy’s question in the most direct manner he knows how.

Chris smiles, a slow turn of his lips that makes Isaac breathe out and nearly melt against him. “Since you’ve been such a good boy,” Chris says, scratching his short nails over the back of Isaac’s neck as he says _good boy,_ "I think you deserve a treat. You get to pick tonight’s activity."

Isaac licks his bottom lip, eyes straying up to Chris’ face as he thinks. Finally, after a long, comfortable silence, Isaac clears his throat and says, “May I suck you, Daddy?”

The innocently spoken question goes straight to Chris’ dick, and he tries not to tighten his grip in Isaac’s hair, but he’s not entirely sure that he succeeds. _Fuck_ , how can a boy so angelic and innocent-looking be so perfectly despoiled?

"Are you sure that’s what _you_ want?” Chris asks, as gently as possible. Isaac’s eagerness to please has resulted in issues in the past. Chris tries to look past Isaac’s words to see what he _needs_ , but he’s been better recently about making those two things agree. 

Want. Need. Need. Want.

Isaac’s teeth sink into his lower lip, and his eyes dart to the side as he hesitantly lifts his hand, showing Chris how prune-y the skin is around his thumb. From the looks of things, he’d been sucking on it for quite some time, obviously using it as a poor substitute for Chris’ cock.

"Oh, baby," Chris murmurs, taking Isaac’s hand in his and pressing soft kisses to the digit. "Did I leave you alone too long today?"

"No, Daddy!" Isaac says, kneeling up, his eyes flashing with concern. "No, no. I just… I was done with my homework and I was thinking about you coming home and… I’m sorry. Was it wrong? I just love you so much and—"

"Shhh." Chris leans forward and presses his mouth over Isaac’s, cutting off the rushed explanation before Isaac can start to panic. His boy has lingering issues stemming from the treatment of the man who’d raised him, and it’s Chris’ job to show Isaac the love and affection he missed out on for so many, lonely years. "No, baby. It’s not wrong. You’re such a good boy, Isaac. My beautiful, wonderful boy." Chris lets Isaac kiss him back, eager and a little sloppy, feeling Isaac’s tall, lanky body pressing urgently against him, chuckling when he feels the needy prodding of Isaac’s dick against his leg. 

"Please, Daddy," Isaac keens, breaking away from their kiss to stare down at Chris’ lap, his hands opening and closing in the air between them, as if he can _feel_ Chris in his hands, his balls heavy and full on his palm.

"Okay, baby," he says, trying to keep his voice soothing as he lifts his hips. "Take me out."

With a needy little noise, Isaac’s hands drop to his belt, fumbling eagerly at it before finally getting it undone and opening his pants. Reaching into Chris’ underwear, Isaac’s body shivers all over as he finally gets his hand around Chris’ dick, which is already mostly hard just from the promise of Isaac’s mouth.

"Daddy," Isaac breathes before dipping his head and swallowing Chris straight down to the root.

Chris stretches out, leaning back against the cushions as his boy happily licks and slurps at his cock. Yeah, after a long day, there’s nothing he’d rather come home to than Isaac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!


	10. Virgin Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles/Nemeton, crack
> 
> Written for the Bonus Round of [the Mating Games](http://mating-games.livejournal.com). This week's prompt was "out of context D&D quotes." (Quotes I used are in bold.)

They're all gathered at the vet clinic, awaiting Deaton's advice. Which should tell you something about the town in which they live, because Stiles is honestly wondering where he went wrong in life, what awful choices he made, that the person upon whom he relies for life saving information most often is the town vet instead of the town doctor.

He's pretty sure Deaton doesn't even have a license to practice animal medicine. Animal husbandry? 

That thought draws a snort of amusement from Stiles, which snags Deaton's attention. Deaton narrows his eyes as his lips tip up at the very corners. Scott thinks that expression is a smile. Stiles has always viewed it as a threat. A cold sweat breaks out along Stiles' brow as Deaton opens his mouth to proclaim his verdict.

"The Nemeton requires a virgin sacrifice."

There is an audible _swish_ as every head in the room turns toward Stiles. 

"Fuck each and every one of you," Stiles says, glaring angrily at all of them in turn. "I am not the only virgin in this godforsaken town! You need someone to bleed on the hell tree, call up little Timmy Turner. I hear he falls off his bike on a regular basis. You can probably get enough blood from his various scrapes to—"

"Not _that_ kind of sacrifice," Deaton cuts in smoothly.

Stiles gets it instantly; apparently, so does Peter, who begins howling with laughter while the others just stand around looking confused.

"Absolutely not," Stiles says through clenched teeth.

"The door was opened, Stiles. It must be closed. Or, at the very least, blocked."

"The door! The b-back door!" Peter stops laughing long enough to gasp out. "But...but the question is... **Does the murder tree _have_ an anus**?"

Stiles doesn't respond to that, just goes to Deaton's magic stash, finds a jar of mountain ash, and dashes a handful in Peter's face. While Peter coughs and chokes, Stiles grabs a newspaper, rolls it up, and whaps him over the nose with it. 

"Returning to the subject," Stiles says calmly while Peter staggers from the room in search of a bathroom to wash his face, "my answer stands. No."

"Stiles," Scott says, sounding reluctant until Derek gently scoops up the jar of mountain ash and disappears out the door with it. "You're our only hope, man."

Shaking with outrage, Stiles surrenders to the inevitable. "I hate you. I hate you all. But you, Scarecrow?" he says, turning to Deaton. "I hate you most of all."

"That's good," Deaton murmurs absently, already thumbing through an old book of spells and ignoring Stiles' outrage entirely. "Oh, and don't worry. The Nemeton self-identifies as female."

"What the fuck kind of difference does that make?!"

"Oh, right." Deaton's head pops up and he smiles happily at Stiles. "You're bisexual."

\---

Stiles approaches the Nemeton on shaky legs, hating how every single one of his nightmares starring this particular stump are flitting vividly through his mind's eye. In a cracking, high-pitched voice, he calls out, " **Don't eat me! I smell like beer and loneliness**."

But of course, this is his life. And this is Beacon Hills. And, most importantly, this is the Nemeton. So not only does it not listen to him, it instantly reaches out with tentacle-like roots to grab him and drag him closer.

"I've seen hentai that starts like this!" Stiles protests, then wants to cut out his own tongue when the roots start...well, _rooting_ around under his shorts. 

The roots give a great, heaving tug and with a weak little rip of protest, Stiles' shorts flutter to the ground. 

"Yeah. Okay," Stiles breathes, starting to panic. 

The roots urge him forward, right up onto the flat part of the stump. Looking down, he notes a hole in the middle of the stump that looks oddly perfect for sticking his dick in. Since he wants to get this over with as soon as possible, he reaches down and starts to jack himself. He's getting into a good rhythm, his dick just starting to plump up in his hand, when a root slithers up the back of his leg and begins teasing along the crack of his ass.

Instant boner killer.

"Well, congratulations," he mutters to the Nemeton. " **You've successfully demoralized the worm.**

But the root doesn't stop. Instead, it probes further, teasing against his hole in little flickers until Stiles feels his dick jump, vaguely interested. Arching a brow down at himself, he just gives a mental shrug and goes for it. The root probes deeper, breaching him even as Stiles returns to jacking himself. The very tip of the root presses up against his prostate, massaging it firmly, and Stiles gasps, suddenly all on board with this plan.

He looks down again, sees that the hole he'd spotted earlier looks damp now, and groans. "Self-identifies as female. Right. You're getting all wet for me?" he asks the tree, feeling sort of...affectionate and very, very dirty.

The hole pulses out a bit more of whatever it is that's wet--it's not thick enough to be sap, he doesn't think. 

Since he's fully hard and the root in his ass hasn't stopped playing with his prostate, Stiles presses the tip of his cock to the hole and shifts forward until he's all the way in. He doesn't dare voice his concerns out loud, but he finds himself praying that this is where he's meant to stick his dick. It would be quite unfortunate to find out the Nemeton has teeth to go along with its bad attitude.

But the hole is...well, it's actually a bit more than _oddly_ perfect. It grips and squeezes and milks Stiles' dick while at the same time the root in his ass keeps up a steady, even pressure.

And Stiles is a virgin. Was a virgin? So it only takes about two seconds for all that stimulation to send him shooting off into the Nemeton. He comes...and comes...and _comes_ until he's sobbing, overstimulated. 

Finally the Nemeton's root slithers free of his ass and the hole loosens enough for his now-limp cock to slip out. Stiles lays there, trying to get his breath back, but something niggles as the back of his mind.

"Did I...? Was it...? Uh. Do you want me to...?" 

But the Nemeton just gives a little shudder and the root that had been so intimate with him wriggles up the stump and into the hole. 

"Well, if you could fuck yourself, why the hell did you need _me_?" Stiles isn't pouting. He's not.

As if in answer, a tiny green plant shoots from the ground at the base of the Nemeton. Stiles stares at it, uncomprehending for all of two seconds before he flails himself right off the Nemeton and into the dirt.

"Oh no. No! What the hell?? _Are you trying to tell me I'm the father?!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [the Mating Games](http://mating-games.livejournal.com). There's some truly phenomenal fic and art being posted there!


	11. Serial Killer Steter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said:
> 
> Serial killer steter, where Stiles isn't a participant but more of the object of Peter's twisted affections? Stiles is reclusive since his father died, he lives on the outskirts of Beacon Hills and starts getting a strange but affectionate visitor. Stiles doesn't know what to make of him but he never does anything that Stiles doesn't want and starts giving him gifts from his travels. Stiles isn't stupid, he knows that the odd wind-chimes are made of human bone but he's just been so lonely.

"Look," Stiles said, rubbing a hand over the back of his head while directing his words to the guy standing right at the edge of the treeline that bordered his property. "It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gifts, because I do, but I’d rather not be dragged out of my bed by the feds some night for being an accomplice to murder. Err, multiple murders."

The man — who’d never seen fit to actually tell Stiles his name because he wasn’t just a psychopathic, mass murdering weirdo, he was apparently a psychopathic mass murdering weirdo with a gigantic crush on Stiles of all people — drifted vaguely backward until the late evening shadows had all but swallowed him up.

"Wait, no!" Stiles was halfway down his porch steps before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself. "Just… ugh. If you want to talk, maybe discuss this like civilized adults, then come inside. The door’s unlocked." In an undertone, he added, "Not that locked doors have ever stopped you before."

"You," it was the first time Stiles had heard his admirer’s voice and the smooth drawl brought him up short, left him open-mouthed in pleased surprise, "aren’t afraid?"

Propping his hip against the railing, Stiles considered that before he reached up and bopped the wind chime the guy had left for him. The one made of human phalanges. “Nah? I mean, maybe I should be, but really? It’s Beacon Hills. Weirder shit has happened. Plus, I figure you could have killed me a hundred times over by now. Obviously you have your reasons not to do that.” Stiles let his eyes search out those of the guy who’d spent the time Stiles had been talking slowly approaching. 

Now slow because of skittishness or fear but… he looked a bit like a tiger stalking prey.

Hah. Greeeeaaaat. Stiles was obviously the prey in this situation.

"I’d never hurt you, Stiles. You’re my muse."

"Oh. That’s, uh. Yeah." Fantastic. Ugh.

But psychopathic mass murdering weirdo or not, the dude was… really fucking hot in that well-kept, deep v-neck, DILF kinda way. 

"So. I never got your name."

A smooth smile transformed the guy’s face, and had Stiles thought of him as a tiger? No no. Dude was aaaalllllll wolf. 

"Peter. Peter Hale."


	12. Anniversary, Acknowledged or Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said:
> 
> Steter prompt? Emotionally established relationship but still trying to figure out what each other like in bed, besides Peter being a control freak and Stiles liking being manhandled anyway. Peter is the first to ask about toys and Stiles agrees. They discover Stiles isn't even remotely turned on by them, they're a total mood killer. He doesn't like the fake feel of them and finds he just wants the real thing. Peter's more than happy to oblige.

"Ugh," Stiles flopped back on the bed, flinging one arm over his face. "Can we not? Just… ugh."

"Ugh?" Peter looked down at the prostate massager in his hand, the very expensive and high quality prostate massager he’d purchased specifically for this night. 

Technically it was the three month anniversary of the night Stiles had screamed invectives at Peter before launching himself at him and pressing sloppy, hate-fuelled kisses on him, but Stiles didn’t like to imagine this as a ‘relationship’, so Peter let him stay happily in denial. It didn’t have to be mutually acknowledged to satisfy Peter’s more romantic nature, after all.

"Yeah, just…" Stiles sighed, peeking from underneath his elbow. "I mean, not that I don’t appreciate the gesture and all, but the toys and dildos and clamps and… whatever fresh hell that is—"

"Prostate massager."

"—prostate massager, okay. All of that? It’s nice enough, but I kinda just prefer the real thing. So can we— Oh, hey there," Stiles squeaked, voice rising the same as his heart rate when Peter gave up all pretense and pounced on him.

"The real thing?" Peter murmured, dragging the points of his fangs over Stiles’ jaw and down the long line of his throat. "Are you a cock-hungry little slut, Stiles?"

"Yeah, I mean, OBVIOUSLY. Look who I’m with. Apparently my dick has no standards."

Peter nipped at Stiles’ collar bone for that, pleased at the way the long, lithe body below him writhed into the sensation.

"Be careful, Stiles. You wouldn’t want to offend me."

"What’ll you do? Gobble me up?"

Peter looked up, meeting Stiles’ cocky grin with a predatory one of his own. “Yes, indeed. It is, after all, what one is meant to do with a wild thing.”


	13. Ride the Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beaconhillsjersey24 said:
> 
> I found I have a need for post-Nogitsune Stiles/Peter, with top!Stiles and bottom/sub!Peter. And I can't find it. Anywhere. This is a problem. Pretty please?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is only while posting this that I realize I think I screwed up the prompt. This is Nogitsune!Stiles, not post-Nogitsune. Ooops. :-/

Peter looked into the eyes of Stiles’ body — because it was just his body present, that much was obvious — and couldn’t suppress the shudder that twitched through his body.

Peter loved power, he craved it. After everything that had happened to him, to his family, to his pack, there was nothing he desired more than power. And this creature, this demon spirit that was wearing the pack’s resident human, it was power. It was ancient and malevolent and _it was power_.

Peter had never felt such instant arousal than he did in that moment.

Stiles’ lips twitched. “Ah, you’ve found me out.” His head cocked to the side, too smooth and sure. “What gave me away to you? His memories of you… You should not know him well enough. His closest friends, his blood kin, none of them know.”

"Because they’re _fools_ ,” Peter hissed. “A barely weaned pup that calls himself a true alpha and a drunken idiot who couldn’t see what was in front of his own eyes.”

Something twitched over Stiles’ borrowed face. “Have a care how you speak. He is subdued but not quite dispatched.”

"You wear his body too well," Peter offered after a moment of ringing silence. "Your movements are too crisp and sure. He moves like… a day-old fawn. All long limbs and flapping mouth and no grace."

"I see. You have my thanks." Stiles stepped back, eyes dragging down Peter’s body. "What cost?"

"Hmm?"

"Information always has a price." Stiles’ tongue clicked against his teeth in irritation.

Peter lurched forward, hands gripping the thin cotton shirt clinging too tight to Stiles’ chest. “Ride _me_ ,” he urged. “Don’t bother with this weak human form. Use me.”

Stiles’ lips twitched up into a smirk, his dark eyes boring into Peter’s own. Reaching up, he ripped the shirt from Peter’s chest, just grabbed it at the lowest point of the v-neck and yanked until he held a strip of blue material in his hands. “That can be arranged.”

Without further warning, human-blunt fingernails were digging into the plains of his stomach, scratching across the tender places until he could feel the skin split and reheal. A flick of his hand sent Peter sprawling onto his back on the carpeted floor, and he landed with a huff of punched-out breath.

His jeans were stripped away roughly, Stiles dropping between his splayed legs. “Ride you?” he asked, eyes lighting up with that power that called so sweetly to Peter. “It will be my pleasure.”


	14. Full Course Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff/Derek for Cyberratting

It’s been so long since John’s had this. Someone spread out, wrecked and reduced to writhing pleas, yes, but also the little things. The comfort of a body sitting close while he watches TV or does paperwork. The brush of a hand against his shoulder, over the small of his back… occasionally over his ass when Derek’s feeling particularly sassy.

And god, he is. Such a sassy little shit. If John hadn’t spent so long raising Stiles, he’d have been overwhelmed by the sheer, subtle force of Derek’s sass.

But yeah. He loves it. Loves having a warm body to touch, a bright mind to challenge. Loves the way those pale eyes go dark with lust when he walks in the room. 

He thanks the maker sometimes — well, all the time, really — that Stiles never got turned. Because he’s pretty sure ninety nine percent of what he does with Derek goes flying right past Stiles. Which is as it should be.

No kid should have to smell the come soaked into the fibers of his couch and know it came from his dad. That’s just Parenting 101.

But regardless, all the little things would mean nothing without _this_ : the bunching flex of Derek’s muscular young body moving almost helplessly on the bed, his lips flushed and bitten red only to fade to a rosy pink before he’s biting them again to stifle his cries. He’s so goddamn beautiful, so fucking _young and vibrant_ , that it’s easy to forget how quickly he could turn the tables if he wanted to.

He doesn’t of course. He just lays there, legs splayed, hairy thighs drawing John’s fingers. As John runs the tips of his fingers through the coarse, dark hair that grows so thick and lush this close to Derek’s groin, Derek’s back bows off the bed, his entire torso twisting almost violently in an attempt to get John’s touch where he needs it most.

"Shh, sweetheart." The gravelly murmur doesn’t do much to settle Derek, so John leans forward, bracing himself on the bed and stretching up until he can press his face to the vulnerable line of Derek’s bared throat. He sets his teeth there, feels the strong pulse of Derek’s heartbeat under his tongue. 

Derek’s body stills, his muscles loosen one by one until a long, juddering sigh breaks the quiet of the bedroom, and he relaxes completely, boneless. He’s calm, at least for the moment.

John licks over Derek’s throat with a quick swipe of his tongue before he pushes himself back upright. His fingers go right back to that gloriously thick hair, testing, probing against Derek’s control. Beyond the darkening of those bewitching eyes, there’s nothing to make John stop.

His lips twitch up on one side, and he keeps that eye contact going strong as he leans down. No more teasing, no more playing; it’s time to move this along.

Opening his mouth, he breathes in the lush, dark, heady scent of _man_ that sits so strong here. As he exhales, his warm, moist breath rustles the hair at the base of Derek’s hard, jutting cock. Nosing at it, he covers Derek’s dark, low-hanging balls with his mouth, lifting them one after the other into the heat of his mouth with his tongue. Bathes them, rolling their meaty flavor over his taste buds and letting an appreciative growl rumble from his chest.

Sharp, broken noises fill the air; it’s Derek, of course, because even after all their time together, he’s still shocked at how much John views sex as a multi-course feast. John’s not some young buck who needs to get his dick wet immediately. He wants to take his time; appreciate everything from the appetizers to the dessert wine at this particular banquet.

So he does. He takes his time. Suckles those heavy balls until Derek’s floundering untucks the fitted sheet. Mouths at the thin skin, pulls it taut and releases until Derek’s breaths are hitching sobs. Catches the hair that grows so lush between his teeth until it’s all tangled up on his tongue.

Only backs off when he feels them drawing up tight, when Derek’s gone still, his stomach muscles bunching in preparation for an orgasm that John isn’t quiet ready to let him have.

So he sits back, plucks the hair off his tongue. Waits. 

Waits for Derek to go calm again. 

Eyeballs the flat little brown discs of Derek’s nipples while he’s waiting. Lets himself get hungry for them. Imagines the chest hair tickling his nose and chin. 

He’s got all night, after all. No need to get to the main course just yet. It’s been so long since he had someone to touch, he’s not going to waste one single, precious minute.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Quicklikelight, just because. :D

Stiles is his best friend. He’s been by Scott’s side since the “peeing in the sandbox” incident when they were four, and there’s not a doubt in Scott’s mind that Stiles will be there when he’s _ninety-four_ and back to peeing in sandboxes. 

Which is why it’s such a blow when the Nogitsune possesses Stiles and makes them all think Stiles has developed the same frontotemporal dementia that killed his mom. Scott’s seen a lot of shit in the past two years, but nothing — not becoming a werewolf, or the kanima, or hunters, or the Alpha pack, or any of Derek’s girlfriends — has scared him as badly as the knowledge that Stiles could just… not be there one day. It shakes Scott right down to his soul.

And they get Stiles back, because of course they do, and they find out Stiles’ brain is fine — well, it’s as fine as Stiles’ brain ever was. But Scott doesn’t really get over that life-rattling fear of losing him, which is probably why it takes so long for him to do anything about it.

There are a lot of ways to lose a friend, after all, some just as permanent as death.

So Scott throws himself into being an Alpha, and he distracts himself with Kira, which is a really shitty thing to do. He knows she’s not a forever option, and he’s pretty sure she’s using him to stretch her own wings. Besides, if she’s anything like her mom, she’s gonna live for a millennia or two. That’s a commitment Scott really isn’t ready for.

He ignores for a while that he’d be perfectly content spending a few thousand years on Earth with Stiles by his side. 

But one day, he’s sitting in Stiles’ room, stretched out on Stiles’ bed with his feet hanging over the edge. He spots the crack in Stiles’ bedroom ceiling that’s been there all their lives, the one that Stiles swears looks like Yoda — Scott hasn’t seen the movies, but you can’t have grown up in the last thirty years and _not_ know who Yoda is — but Scott thinks looks more like a floppy-eared rabbit. And suddenly it comes tumbling out of him, without him even thinking about it. “I love you.”

Stiles goes still next to him, then relaxes again. “I love you too, dude.”

"No, man," Scott says, turning his head to look at Stiles, who’s turning _his_ head to look back. Because they’ve basically always been in sync, bonded so deeply not even existing in different physical forms could stop them from sharing one soul. “I _love you_ love you.”

Stiles blinks at him, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks before fluttering open again, and between one blink and the next, his eyes have darkened and gone soft looking and just… It hits Scott, right then and there, how absolutely beautiful this face that he’s seen every day of his life is. It feels like someone has reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart in a tight grip.

Like it’s been choreographed, they roll toward one another, lips slotting together without any weird awkwardness. It’s perfect and beautiful and Stiles tastes like the old, stale Red Vines they found in a package under his bed that they’d been eating. 

"I want…" Scott murmurs into Stiles’ mouth, trailing off as he realizes there’s no one thing he can say to end that sentence.

"…everything with you," Stiles says, completing Scott’s thought perfectly. Like he completes _Scott_.

It’s such a Jerry Macguire thought, Scott snorts a laugh and tells Stiles, who laughs along with him, sending them both into further fits of giggles when he says, voice all breathy, “You had me at hello.”

They don’t have sex that night, even though Stiles tries everything to convince him. No. Scott’s determined to do this right. 

It’s Stiles. He deserves every bit as much romance as Scott gave his other girl friends. Significant others. Whatever.

Of course, that doesn’t stop them from rubbing off on each other and coming in their jeans. 

And if Stiles throws his arms up in victory after Scott nuts off, shouting, “Show me the money,” it’s really no more than Scott was expecting.

Yeah. He’s gonna have his dorky best friend _forever_ , and he’s never been more excited for the future.


	16. Hooha Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dizzilytwirling asked:  
> YOU HAVE BEEN TRAPPED BY THE HOOHA CHALLENGE! What is this awesomely original challenge you may ask? When trapped, you must use the word 'hooha' in porn un-ironically, in a non-humorous context. Then, tag two authors who you think should write hooha porn.

It started that night in Mexico, when they were dancing all up on each other.  Kira had never really had anyone pay her that sort of attention — having a parent that was a teacher tended to be quite the romantic pitfall — so the way Malia just grabbed her and started rubbing up on her… well.  It sparked something to life inside Kira that no amount of soft, dizzying kisses from Scott could extinguish.

She wanted to want the same thing from Scott, but with Scott, he was always dragging her on top, trying to get her to set the pace, and Kira… Kira wanted to be manhandled.  She wanted hands on her hips, grip firm as they forced her to move.  She wanted soft breasts pressed to her own, a thigh sliding between hers and grinding up.  She wanted someone else to take over, someone else to tell her what to do.

She’d found that in Malia, during that dizzyingly twirling, spiraling night in the club with the music thrumming through her entire body and Malia’s sweat-slick skin sliding against hers.  But Malia was with Stiles, and Scott was… not really her boyfriend, but he’d certainly be hurt if she suddenly started flirting with his best friend’s girlfriend and… 

Being a teenager sucked.  

So Kira just let things be, let the world continue to spin on without trying to change anything, right up until the day, shortly after they got back from Mexico the  _second_ time, a little worse for wear, when she decided it was time for her to  _do_ something.  She started off with a trip to Scott’s house, because this wasn’t a phone call sort of conversation, and she wasn’t coward enough to put it all in a text.  So she went to his house, wrung her hands through an explanation — shorting a few lightbulbs in his house in her anxiety — and then nearly collapsed in relief when he smiled, a little sad, and hugged her before pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head and telling her that Stiles and Malia weren’t really a  _thing_ thing.

Whatever that meant.

So from there, Kira bopped over to Stiles’ house, feeling a lot lighter — having Scott’s support was amazing — and knocked at the door, her palms a little sweaty.  She winced when the porch light exploded right after the Sheriff pulled the door open.

"Sorry!"

But he just smiled wryly, like he was used to these sorts of things, and though Kira didn’t really  _know_ Stiles well, she thought maybe… well.  Maybe he  _was_ used to things randomly exploding in his presence.  It didn’t help her relax any, because she was minutes away from blurting out her feelings for Malia right in front of Malia’s pseudo-boyfriend, but.

It was still nice to know.

Racing up the stairs under the Sheriff’s direction, Kira followed the sound of low voices to a door that was half-open and pushed it further.  Peeking her head in, she saw Malia was already looking at her, a small grin curving her lips, and Stiles was pulling some paper off what looked like a yarn-covered bulletin board.

"Oh!  Is that the case board?" Kira asked, instantly distracted from her quest.  

"Yep!" Stiles said, turning to her with a grin.  "And I’m not instantly replacing these with any new murders—"

"Stiles!"  Malia growled, flashing her eyes at him.

"Oh, shit."  Stiles hurriedly rapped his knuckles against the faux-wood laminate of his desk.  "Close enough," he muttered, then raised his eyebrows at Kira.  "So.  What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"I, um."  Kira fumbled at nothing, because she hadn’t really planned what to say when she got here.  She’d actually expected to run out of courage halfway here, but… Flicking her eyes to Malia, who was sitting cross-legged on Stiles bed, she twisted her fingers together and drew a breath.  "I.  Are you two together?" she finally blurted.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open and he looked at Malia, eyebrows doing a funny dance on his forehead.  ”We’re…  _something?_ I mean…”

Malia tipped her chin up, eyes narrowing on them both.  She drew a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and then looked at Kira in a new light.  ”Oh.  Okay.  Stiles, I’m going to go.”

"Huh?"

"With Kira.  We’re going to have sex.  I’ll be back later for sleeping."

Kira and Stiles blinked at each other, twin expressions of surprise flashing across their faces.  ”Is she always…?”

"Yeah, pretty much," Stiles answered with a little shrug.  Then, looking between Kira and Malia, he nodded slowly, like he was seeing something new.  "Oh.  Huh.  Okay, that explains a few things.  Wow."  A grin stretching his lips, he poked Kira in the side.  "This have anything to do with the text I got from Scott for bro-time tonight?"

Kira felt her face heating in a blush.  ”Yeah, I…”  She shrugged, helpless.  ”I talked to him first.  I didn’t…”

"Sexuality is a fluid, ever-evolving thing," Stiles said, sounding far too wise and a lot like…

"Okay, no, you’re not Yoda."  Kira smacked him lightly on the arm, then stiffened when Stiles shouted and threw his arms around her, half-sobbing his gratitude that someone in his life had seen Star Wars.

But then Malia was grabbing Kira’s hand and dragging her from the room. It didn’t take long for them to arrive back at Kira’s house and dart to her room, where they stood, staring at each other as Kira tried to catch her breath.  Breath that was coming shallower and shallower as Malia’s gaze went from curious to predatory.

And, okay, Kira had spent a long time making out with Scott before that whole disaster with the Berserkers and the jaguar lady, but at no point in time had she felt as overwhelming a surge of  _want_  as she was feeling now.  It was… holy cow.  Pressing her thighs together, she let her mouth fall open and actually used her hand to fan her face.

"I want to taste you," Malia said, her voice low and raspy.

Kira could only meep out her consent, and then Malia was right there, hands on her hips, pulling their bodies together and it was that night in Mexico all over again.  The only thing missing was the music.

Malia lifted her, put her in the middle of her bed, and spread her thighs, pushing her skirt up and yanking her tights and underwear down in one swift move.  Dropping her head, Malia nosed between Kira’s thighs, dragging in a loud breath that made Kira squirm.  ”You smell so good.  Like  _mine_ ,” Malia growled, rubbing her cheek against Kira’s inner thigh.

"I… I want…"  Kira tossed her head on the pillow, unable to put words to her desires.

"I’m going to eat you now."  Malia looked up the line of Kira’s body, nothing but the top of her face, her glowing eyes and expressive eyebrows and thick hair showing over the bunched material of Kira’s skirt.  "I’m going to lick your hooha until you put your juices all over my face."

Kira gasped, hips jerking, and she nodded shakily.  She’d never done anything like this before, but  _god_ did she want it now.  Right now.  Sparks shot from her fingertips with how badly she wanted it.

Malia just smirked at the sight of Kira losing control and lowered her head, lapping and sucking at Kira until she came, her orgasm so powerful that it blew three transformers in her neighborhood.


	17. Petopher for Cyberrat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the amazing Cyberrat on the occasion of her birth. Many happy returns, beautiful!

The thing about werewolves is they don’t even _try_ not to draw attention to their otherness. Chris is trying to live by the new motto, the new code but it’s really fucking hard to do when Peter Hale walks around when it’s twenty degrees and snowing out in thin v-neck shirts with ragged necklines — like he had to stretch them out, rough up the fabric, just to make it fit around his thick neck — and frayed jeans. Frayed jeans that are strategically ripped in the back to show off the bottom curve of his too-tight-for-a-man-of-his-age ass. 

The place will be crawling with shady hunters by dawn at this rate.

Chris tries to be low key, which is more than can be said for the Beacon Hills pack. He has a normal job now, gave up the arms business when he gave up the old code. He takes over the job at the hockey rink that Boyd’s death had left unfilled, and spends his days coaching little league ice-hockey.

It’s good. It’s completely _un_ exciting. Not boring, because there are annoyingly distractable kids with sharp blades strapped to their feet, but there aren’t monsters and mayhem.

And then winter rolls along and with it the opening of the outside rink and… Peter. Peter Hale happens. 

The entire town turns out at some point in those few weeks, all eager to step onto the ice and do a few twirls. The kids show off for their parents, and Chris’ roster for the next season of skating lessons actually gets filled to the point that he has a waiting list.

There are a lot of single moms in this town and not a few single dads as well.

But Chris can’t concentrate on any of that because Peter Hale is trying his damnedest to bring the wrong kind of attention to Chris’ ice rink. He’s gliding around on his skates like he’s too good for the Olympic Committee and he’s not even wearing _gloves_. He’s just skating along, occasionally reaching over and grabbing onto his ankles and showing off his ass and… Chris really shouldn’t be the one dealing with this. He just… _shouldn’t_ be.

Peter has an alpha and that alpha should be the one stomping onto the ice in boots that have inch long metal spikes on them. Not Chris. Chris should be manning the hot chocolate stand or… Or maybe measuring kids for their skates or something.

Instead, he’s taking care of this because it’s ingrained in him to remove the threat that werewolves pose to the community at large. And there’s no threat like the one before him. 

When he grabs Peter on his next pass, Chris has to brace his legs, feels it in his thighs when he stops Peter’s forward momentum. When he swings Peter around, their chests slamming together as Peter’s eyes flash a warning at him. But Chris isn’t paying any attention to Peter’s posturing, because he’s already letting out a stream of invective, whispering harshly at Peter to cover the fuck up already.

"Humans don’t go _ice skating_ in winter without some fucking form of protection from the cold. Are you _trying_ to bring unwanted attention on yourself and your pack?”

Peter’s smile is too toothy, too smarmy for Chris’ blood pressure. “If I was trying, it looks like I succeeded. What’s wrong, Christopher? Can’t handle a little skin?”

Chris just snarls and drags Peter off the ice — thankful every step for the fact that he’s wearing skates and can’t put up much resistance — and then he doesn’t stop, just keeps dragging until he’s got Peter shoved into the blessedly empty shack that he’d normally be selling hot chocolate out of. It’s moderately warm, but small and cramped and lined with shelves for holding the supplies. And the walls are thin, so he has to keep his voice down when he starts in berating Peter.

Only somehow he forgets the part where he wants to yell at Peter because Peter’s ripping the skates off his feet and dropping to his knees, whispering something about how he can’t believe Chris held out so long. And then Peter is fighting at the button and zip on Chris’ jeans — thick denim with no holes, perfectly suited to the outside temperature when paired with a nice sheepskin jacket — and pulling his dick out. Chris doesn’t even know when his dick got all hard and impatient, but somehow it is and then Peter’s putting his mouth on it and… 

Oh. Oh yes, this is definitely a better way of dealing with the cold than burning his tongue on too-hot water that’s weakly flavored with powdered chocolate. 

Chris grabs onto the shelf behind him, his hips jerking forward to push his cock deeper into Peter’s mouth. But the shelf isn’t sturdy, not sturdy like the wolf kneeling in front of him, so Chris moves his hands, gets them on Peter’s shoulders, moves them up a little. Traces the tendons and corded muscle of Peter’s neck until he does what he’s been wanting to do for years.

Just as the head of his cock breaches the back of Peter’s mouth and pushes into the tight, heady squeeze of his throat, Chris wraps his fingers around Peter’s neck. It’s so thick, so hot with blood pumping under the skin. And if he brings his thumb up and presses into the place he just knows must be bulging from the thickness of his cock, well…

It doesn’t take long. There are people outside, mostly children, and Chris has been wanting this without knowing it for far too long. He fucks his cock into Peter’s mouth without mercy, just pounds it in there. From the choked-off sounds Peter’s making, Chris doesn’t think he objects.

And then he’s there, his orgasm swamping him, flooding his veins and spilling into Peter’s mouth and down his throat and dripping from his lips when he can’t swallow it all. Chris jerks him to his feet, get his fingers into that slutty little rip in the backside of his jeans and digs in, tells Peter exactly what he’s going to do to him as soon as they get out of here. 

It’s amusing, almost, how obedient Peter becomes then. 

Chris should have fucked his throat raw years ago.


	18. Sheriff/Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I need to know: is the sheriff uncut or not?

It wasn’t often John got to indulge in this with another man; most men of his acquaintance were circumcised, and once they got this far with him, they were either hesitant to touch his foreskin or too curious to do anything but play with it themselves. And even when he did get someone who was interested, it wasn’t as good for them as it was for him.

Not that it was ever bad, but cut dicks were far less sensitive at the head than his was, so…

But here was this gorgeous young man, laid out for him like a feast, and it wasn’t like John hadn’t thought about it. Often. Far too often for the taxpayer’s good, considering their professions. 

Maybe John should feel guilty for luring one of his newest deputies into his bed, but honestly? This had been building for far longer than Derek had been wearing a uniform to work. 

After the initial rush of kissing and touching and petting was over, John spent his time, lingering over the way Derek’s skin stretched over hard muscles, the way hair stood thick all over his body. He delighted in the very texture of Derek’s body until his fingertips and tongue were tingling, and then he finally turned his attention to the dick jutting hard and nearly purple with need from between Derek’s thick thighs. 

"I want to—" he started to say, only to have Derek cut him off with a sob and a jerk of his hips.

“Please!”

"Shh, it’s okay." John eased up the bed, placing a soft kiss to the dip at the base of Derek’s throat. His grip was firm when he lifted Derek’s dick, understanding that Derek didn’t need anymore teasing. 

Neither did John. 

With a ragged breath of his own, John deftly tugged Derek’s foreskin down, swiping his thumb over the exposed head and then cursing softly when Derek’s back bowed, a sharp moan bursting into the air. 

"Roll onto your side, sweetheart," John murmured, helping Derek turn when it seemed he was too far gone to be able to understand simple English. 

It was too easy like this, too natural to tangle their legs together, to point Derek’s dick down and line his own up with it. To expose the heads and press them together before letting the foreskin snap back as much as it could with them both so hard. 

John’s entire body went flush with heat at the sight of them like that, at the feel of Derek’s tip pressed up against his own. With a shaky hand, he gripped them tight, right where they joined, and flicked his wrist in tiny, stilted movements, dragging their foreskin back and forth.

It was… too much and not enough and for a long minute John lost the ability to breathe. Derek wasn’t doing much better, from the sounds of things. Not that John could really tell; he couldn’t lift his eyes from the sight of their dicks, joined by his hand. 

He used his other hand to hold Derek’s hips in place, not wanting him to jerk or thrust at the wrong time and end up breaking them apart. But he needn’t have worried because for all that Derek was writhing and begging with little cut off sounds, he was holding himself perfectly still below the waist. 

And then his hand joined John’s, wrapping around where his fingers were holding them together, jerking them off in quick little tugs, pulling Derek’s foreskin over his cockhead and then reversing the motion so that his foreskin slid down over Derek’s. It was intimate and breathtaking and John wasn’t a teenager any longer but he knew with a certainty that sent a jolt through him that he was a handful of seconds from coming.

From coming all over Derek’s dick, possibly inside his foreskin and…

Derek came first, and the feel of it set John off. The feel of Derek’s come, so hot and wet, flooding the inside of his foreskin under the tight grip of their joined fingers until it spilled out, squeezed out between them, soaking their fingers and mingling with John’s when he finally went off. 

For a few seconds Derek allowed their joined fingers to keep softly stroking, and then he was flipping John onto his back, a little bit rough and a whole lot eager as he zeroed in on John’s come-covered dick, sucking it into his mouth and digging his tongue under John’s foreskin until he was hissing and yanking on Derek’s hair, too sensitive.

"Please, please." Derek’s words were half-whine, half-growl, his entire body trembling between John’s thighs when he buried his face in John’s hip and muffled himself in the natural hollow there.

"Just," John huffed, fingers loosening their grip to run gently through Derek’s destroyed hair, "give me a minute." Slipping his fingers down further on his last pass, he wrapped them around the back of Derek’s neck and squeezed, a small smile stretching his lips when that small touch instantly settled Derek against him. 

For all the attendant bullshit, lycanthropy did have some benefits.


End file.
